Green. Like the swamp water you definitely dipped a toe in despite everyone telling you not to. Green like the color your face turns after hour six of a crawfish boil, when you swore you were done at tray three and then someone yelled that the next batch came out spicier. Green like that daiquiri from the drive-thru window with a piece of tape over the straw hole, which somehow makes it legal and definitely does not make it safer.
This is the heart you give a place that serves you something delicious, humid, and mildly dangerous at every single opportunity, and you keep coming back for more because you have no self control and also because it rules. Love is queasy. Love is Louisiana.
Soft enough to nap in on a porch swing, sturdy enough to survive the kind of humidity that fogs up sunglasses indoors. Built to hold its shape and color through a hundred washes, which it will absolutely need.
